Scared
Captain Martin talks his way through every battle. It's distracting at first, but reassuring once you're used to it, and with a little practice his voice in the background becomes a sort of barometer. If the battle's going well, he's stalking up and down the line, shouting orders interspersed with wisecracks, jokes, long stories made up on the spot that any given man only gets to hear a part of and will never know the rest, which is fine because no one's listening to the words as such anyway. If things start to go downhill, he starts talking less, conferring more with lieutenants and sergeants and popping up over the sandbags to eye his own measurements and make his own decisions. If things are really bad, he becomes more and more relentlessly upbeat and reassuring; if he's walking behind you shouting "That's it, lads, just a wee bit more, we've almost got Jerry well and licked, just keep at it" - well, then, you're proper fucked; and if he's gone silent... well, you'll be saluting Davies in the morning, won't you, and you'll miss old Martin awfully, the half-daft silly bugger.
This particular battle's going terribly, and he really thinks they've lost; that it's only a matter of time - perhaps just minutes - before it's over, and the hun comes a-hunting, and they're all laid waste to utterly. It's a cold dead certainty in the pit of his stomach, which is being ignored just as pointedly as the searing pain in his ribs and the blood he has to keep rubbing out of his eyes from the cut opened up on his forehead (Crusoe hadn't caught him in time to yank off his officer's cap and shove a helmet on him). He can't let on how he feels; he has a responsibility to his men, besides which it's just not in his character. Too much Eton or something. He could joke about it if he would only be joking, but near the truth let no words stray.
The most he allows himself is a moment's breather, crying out: "Come on, lads, losing's a bad strategy, plus it's gruesome!" before he slumps against the wall of the parapet trench in the middle of the Charlies, leaning forward to tap one of them on the shoulder. "Cuddles, you're American, can't you use your Yankee mind powers to summon a few thousand of your Marines or something? If you wouldn't mind terribly - I might even let you off trench duty for a few weeks as a reward - " He laughs exhaustedly, almost slightly hysterically, and lets the platoon sergeant come fuss over him for a moment, wiping at the scalp wound and very pointedly calling him "sir" as if in punishment for his own bad judgement. And then he pats Crusoe on the shoulder and straightens carefully back up, shouting encouragement again. He'd been quiet too long; the lads might be worrying.
And later: Someone whoops and shouts down the line: "GOR BLIMEY! THEY BRUNG IN THE CALVARY!" And Martin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "Dear God, I hope not - " before looking up for a moment, almost tired enough to actually be looking for a lurking hill or something - and what he sees off on the horizon is almost as big as a hill, a huge hulk of metal straining and grinding over the mud and the broken-down trees and the wires, but it isn't until the guns go off that he grins and almost whoops himself, jogging through the zig-zag of the parapets to find the one who'd shouted and whack him on the shoulder. "Cavalry, Wiggy, cavalry, and little lambsy divey!"
This particular battle's going terribly, and he really thinks they've lost; that it's only a matter of time - perhaps just minutes - before it's over, and the hun comes a-hunting, and they're all laid waste to utterly. It's a cold dead certainty in the pit of his stomach, which is being ignored just as pointedly as the searing pain in his ribs and the blood he has to keep rubbing out of his eyes from the cut opened up on his forehead (Crusoe hadn't caught him in time to yank off his officer's cap and shove a helmet on him). He can't let on how he feels; he has a responsibility to his men, besides which it's just not in his character. Too much Eton or something. He could joke about it if he would only be joking, but near the truth let no words stray.
The most he allows himself is a moment's breather, crying out: "Come on, lads, losing's a bad strategy, plus it's gruesome!" before he slumps against the wall of the parapet trench in the middle of the Charlies, leaning forward to tap one of them on the shoulder. "Cuddles, you're American, can't you use your Yankee mind powers to summon a few thousand of your Marines or something? If you wouldn't mind terribly - I might even let you off trench duty for a few weeks as a reward - " He laughs exhaustedly, almost slightly hysterically, and lets the platoon sergeant come fuss over him for a moment, wiping at the scalp wound and very pointedly calling him "sir" as if in punishment for his own bad judgement. And then he pats Crusoe on the shoulder and straightens carefully back up, shouting encouragement again. He'd been quiet too long; the lads might be worrying.
And later: Someone whoops and shouts down the line: "GOR BLIMEY! THEY BRUNG IN THE CALVARY!" And Martin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "Dear God, I hope not - " before looking up for a moment, almost tired enough to actually be looking for a lurking hill or something - and what he sees off on the horizon is almost as big as a hill, a huge hulk of metal straining and grinding over the mud and the broken-down trees and the wires, but it isn't until the guns go off that he grins and almost whoops himself, jogging through the zig-zag of the parapets to find the one who'd shouted and whack him on the shoulder. "Cavalry, Wiggy, cavalry, and little lambsy divey!"